from the back of your notebook...

or make it up in in the 'post' box as you go



doesn't have to make sense

nor end properly



1 line or a thousand

Just Add on a story





I'll do five or so of my own.



.



Behind me the sun spins or the moon does. Or, the world looks like Hades, or Heaven, or 45th Street in the snow.

We've gathered here to watch a jade burn, or a soul loose, or a 14 year old mother breast feed her child on a bench.

There's blood on the floor but I don't know where it's from. It can't be mine. I'm Superman. I read Balzac in the winter, Chekhov in the Summer.

I know Mozart, not sonically, but personally. I'm Superman. I call Balzac 'Ball sack' and no one stops me.

I turned 'Three Sisters' into 'Four Sisters' because I fucked it. And no one stopped me.

I can't leap a building in a single bound, nor run faster than a speeding bullet, but I'm Superman just the same.



My cape is red except that when I stepped out onto 45th street, I didn't have a cape.

There's blood on the street, blood on my back. But it isn't mine. It can't be.

I'm like Clark Kent when he's angry. I'm Clark Kent in a child support case with Lois Lane. I see red.

I see red like Picasso in 1905. I see a red armchair with a 14 year old mother breast feeding her child.



Iced roses glint upon her mouth, glint upon the snow.
Iced roses glint upon her mouth, glint upon the snow.



I stepped in front of the bullet but this blood isn't mine.

Red periods are for those with brushes.

I can quote Shakespeare in my dreams, but I don't know shit 'bout paint.

Whether 'tis nobler... to suffer the slings and arrows...(AND I DREAM...)
or to take arms against a sea of troubles...(AND I DREAM)



I took arms. I'm Superman, so I took steel arms and stepped in front of a boyfriend pointing a pistol at a 14 year old girl on 45th Street.

I'm on the ground now watching her breast feed her newborn on a bench.


I'm on the ground.

But this blood isn't mine.

.......................................................................................




p.s.

i know i'm supposed to be retired. forgive my little relapse. a nigga been reading Balzac (Na, my nigga, not ball sack. Google.)

just to tell you how happy I am to see you've once again arrived would be a little on the "oh shush your mouth, tre" side, but it's true. And, for you to come back w/ narrative writing and advising us to join in, is even better. you've still got it, I gather it never left ("it" being that talent of yours).

she ain't no dime

the boys on the block sneer at her, calling her ketchup kendra. her cousin told me they said she smell like ketchup. i ain't followin' up with dem cuz i think she smell just fine. her hair is like bronze, no. no. it's more like penny colored with some orange innit. she look just like her mama; moon eyes and plum lips. i wave at her every day, but she pays me no mind. hands on her hips, sneakers double-tied (you know? when you pull 'em too hard, they get knotted up? youknowwhati'mtalkinbout), and starched-up acid washed jeans. i call her "my kendra," but i don't say this out loud. uh uh, i don't want her treating me like dem boys on the corner. i don't want her thinkin' that i think she ain't no dime. i'm just gon' keep waving at her with my little smile and hope that one day she waves back.

©Tremaine L. Loadholt 09October08

---------------------------------
somebody you love needs a letter
from you ©my fortune cookie

http://absolutelyflawed.wordpress.com
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I think I could handle the smell of ketchup on a youngin' -- :P

But onions? Nope! ... Or vinegar~y pickles? ... Nawwww! ... (and I had some classmates in Elementary school that smelled like onions and/or pickles) -- x(


You, Ms. mind, have the chameleon ability to change your voice from a little child's ... to a teeny~bopper ... to a grown ass woman --- steppin' in2 their shoes with antics & semanics.

Thas' one of the million and one things I like aboutcha! -- *wink*

so here we are playin speed ball in the hole at clifton park. memba when phil hit the ball so hard it went cross harford road and into the back of the cemetery? man them dayz was fun n erbody could find summin dey was good at n get respect. even church boyz played like dey was bruce lee and dem numb chucks wasn't no joke.
dis is some bullshit watchin kids die er ova weekend. n all folk be sayin is "it aint right," hell we know dat. do summin makem listen makem wake up shyt makem come back and keep dey ass a while till er body been heard. townhall meet on sum reel shyt y don't dey?

I memba gittin' hit (accidentally of course), but I 'memba gittin' hit with my lil' brotha's numb chucks ... as he attempted to demonstrate how they werk -- x(

I had a big ass knot on my 4head the day after Christmas ... thanks to him!



ASIEM .. the voice in this pCe sounds like some down home folk ... sittin' on da front porch ... drankin' some hooch w/ice tea/lemonade mixxx ... tryna talk politics or world affairs ... (But locally)


I hear ya!

I saw him
Out the corner of my eye
Stealthlike
... he was
Silent
... but not deadly
He moved closer
In the shadows
Blending
... with the blackness of night
Candles flickered
The floor creaked
Faucets dripped
The air was thick
I felt him
Swirling the room
Into a chilled mist
:.:.:Goosebumps:.:.:
Static caused the hair on my arms
... to rise
Electric eyes pierced the darkness
Ever so gently
... he touched me
Like ice
I melted
Into a bloody pool
Of perspiration
Precipitation
Polarization

I'm drowning ...
Help me!




Welcome back Mr. Blak! -- :9

I was born where the sun don't shine. My house was made of glass.

Each day, from my bedroom, I watched the darkness come in waves, light black then dark black, almost night then night,
never any sun, always a blue black cloak, always a brown tipped silence.
It was the kind of place where to speak in a normal tone was too much. It was a place for whispers.

I should tell you that there were two worlds back then.
There are more now, of course, but back then, there were only two.
The sunned and the sun-less.
At thirteen, we, sun-less children, were floated to the sun school. We were shipped to the light house, the bright halls,
the place where children sung:

"I kick you where the sun don't shine. I kick you where the sun don't shine. Since you live there, I'm inclined. To kick your behind all the time."



Cruel, but I decided the first time I heard it that it was funny. I have that kind of sense of humor.
I laugh as long as you're not insulting me. Shoot, if it's funny enough, I laugh even as your insulting me.
I don't care. My mama says it's because my daddy was a sun man. She says I got some of his disposition. I don't know.
I wouldn't know. I never met him. I don't even know his name.


She doesn't either (know his name, that is). According to her, he came down here on vacation one time long enough to get me started. But that was it.

I asked her,

"He came down here on vacation?"
She said, "Yea."
I screwed my face up. I remember I screwed my face up.

"Well, I guess he's got to have a sense of humor if he came down here for vacation."

But the truth is, the thing I didn't say was, that I don't know. I wouldn't know. I never met him.



(there's a lot more here but eh)


(i like those stories above me too.)

a Charles Dickens tale of sorts. I enjoyed it, especially here:

I kick you where the sun don't shine. I kick you where the sun don't shine. Since you live there, I'm inclined. To kick your behind all the time."



Cruel, but I decided the first time I heard it that it was funny. I have that kind of sense of humor.
I laugh as long as you're not insulting me. Shoot, if it's funny enough, I laugh even as your insulting me.
I don't care. My mama says it's because my daddy was a sun man. She says I got some of his disposition. I don't know.
I wouldn't know. I never met him. I don't even know his name.


She doesn't either (know his name, that is). According to her, he came down here on vacation one time long enough to get me started. But that was it.

I asked her,

"He came down here on vacation?"
She said, "Yea."
I screwed my face up. I remember I screwed my face up.

"Well, I guess he's got to have a sense of humor if he came down here for vacation."

*nods*

---------------------------------
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from you ©my fortune cookie

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>a Charles Dickens tale of sorts.

I'm on page 57.

I finished David Copperfield two weeks ago.

I 'thieve', but I try to 'thieve' from the best...

hoping that eventually something'll rub off.

^This^ reminds me of one a' those kids "sci~fi" fantasy steelo joints ... where someONE or someTHING has stolen the (((LIGHT))) from a particular planet, so folks are forced to live a dreary, color~less life ... surrounded by greys, browns, & blacks ...

Until ...

SomeONE comes to save the day and shed light & love on the planet ... and then folks finally SEE the goodness in each other ... and color & beauty return to the planet.

And everyONE lives happily ever after ... :P


I kinda like the butt kickin' part ... *chuckles*


*Good StoryLine*

and i ain't going to.

She's fifteen. I'm fourteen.

We dance a blue black moon.

Her eyes are closed. Mine mimic. We kiss and dance a blue black moon.

By that, I mean it's dark. Forgive me, I'm a literary dick nigga. I tend to say "the moon dances blue black" when I only mean I can't see.

But still...



we're lip to lip, mouths open, minds somewhere beyond, hearts light, visions sable.

She said she only kisses this way.

Open eye tongue-ings freak her out.

I'm fourteen. She's fifteen.




Up until this point, I've watched every person I've ever put my lips on-

I've open eye tongued each one of them

because something about the feeling in their faces gets me, tickles me.

Ten seconds in, I always peek. Fifteen seconds, thirty.

She caught me the very first time we kissed. Twenty something seconds in, she knifed me,

"Ew, you kiss wit your eyes open?!"

*Record scratch* Stop.




I'm a literary dick nigga which means, well, I lie.

"Na, I had something in my eye."

My hand goes up to rub my eye. There's nothing there, but I blink hard and do five circles.

"Oh. Well, why didn't you just say something? We could've stopped."

"It was good. I didn't really want to."

"Oh."




We're back to kissing now and my eyes are shut tighter than a midnight walnut.
I'm quite thinking that she's cured me.

I'm quite thinking that I'll dance blue black moons from now on.

My mother ain't leave me no money. Not one red cent. That lawyer they hired to read over her Will say she meant not to leave me anything. How you like that? I took care of her for the last ten years of her dying life and she ain't gon' repay me? How I'm sposed to take care of all these bills that I neglected cuz 'o her? Chile, I called my sister up, asked her how she felt bout that Will readin' and she say, "Well, I guess it was fair." Yeah, of course she think it's fair, mama left her $10,000.00 and all she did was pop out her pussy last. I'm the oldest of her four children and I'm the only one who ain't get shit. I think that lawyer tinkered with mama's Will, I can't believe this! My father sent me a letter and I ain't open it yet. I'm too scared to read it. Maybe he's dying too.

©Tremaine L. Loadholt 12October09

---------------------------------
somebody you love needs a letter
from you ©my fortune cookie

http://absolutelyflawed.wordpress.com
http://www.lulu.com/content/132318
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that's the first thing i saw.

incredibly rich.

and

you know how somebody can mess up 'slang' to the point where you
don't believe it?

yea, that was absent here.

i hope you keep stretching this

because

i was full on into the story.



like the daddy died?

you son of a bitch




>Chile, I called my sister up, asked her
>how she felt bout that Will readin' and she say, "Well, I
>guess it was fair." Yeah, of course she think it's fair, mama
>left her $10,000.00 and all she did was pop out her pussy
>last.

Now see ...

With just ^this^ lil blurb right here ... I can already see the backdrop / stage / and actors (theatre) ... throw in some chicks like Lisa Bonet, Nia Long, Loretta Devine, Regina King ... maybe even some Whoopie Golberg ... and ... well ... I'ont know who else, but ... like I told you before ...

AT SOME POINT IN TIME, I'M PREDICTING YOU'LL BE WRITING SCRIPTS / PLAYS / THEATER WORK ...

*Photo Plants The Seed*
*Photo Plants The Seed*
*Photo Plants the Seed*


... now water that shit and make it grow!!! -- :P

I'm toying w/ the idea of perhaps taking this one further, so you may see more of it... *crosses fingers*

Photo *nods* Thanks... I think at this point, I'm all booked out. And, you know what I say about plays, movies (scripts), etc... I don't think that's even for me... LOL. Thank you two for reading. We need more contributors, there are some good stories in here.

---------------------------------
somebody you love needs a letter
from you ©my fortune cookie

http://absolutelyflawed.wordpress.com
http://www.lulu.com/content/132318
http://www.lulu.com/content/7598631

Trust Me
U must be
~~Crazy~~
If you think
I believe that shit

I know damn well
"THAT" ain't my baby

My baby didn't die in the middle of the night
You *KNOW* that's "your" baby / This just ain't right
Why don't you tell them what really happened?
Now King Solomon's in da mixxx / Shit's gon' git flappin'

Say what?
Why yes your highness
That "IS" my baby.
From the crown of his head
To the tip of his toes
Ain't no IF's ... BUT's ... or MAYBE's

I don't care what she say
She's lying!!!
My baby ... he needs me
He's hungry ... He's crying?

Wait!
Excuse me?
Cut him in half?
So she gets half / and I get half?
You think that's fair?
No! No! No!
Give him to her ... I don't care!

She can feed him from her breast
Mother's milk ... by far the best
She can coddle him at night
Lullaby him til' the morning light

Just don't cut him up, my lord
He came from my lifeblood's umbilical cord
She can have him ... "whole" and complete
I'll suffer the loss ... It's my defeat

Oh?
Word?
You're givin' him back to me?
My sacrifice has made you see?
He "IS" my baby ... and you are WISE
Good judgement call... thru Wisdom's eyes ... :D


http://www.ucgstp.org/lit/gn/gn015/profiles.html

to use mindful's word here. watch me get the definition wrong.)

is strong?

when i'm so caught up in the story that i don't realize that
the author is actually rhyming throughout.

i didn't catch the rhyme scheme until i was near the end.


good story.


p.s.

this read like Shakespearean Maury (Povich) to me

Bitcheth, no you didn'teth and whatnot



pause. i clicked the link after i typed that^^

Lord and Solomon forgive me, but i ain't backspacing

I think what's most impressive is that you took an old biblical tale and flipped it; straight up made it yours. I loved this, partly for the rhyme, but mostly for the way the story played out.

My favorites:

"Wait!
Excuse me?
Cut him in half?
So she gets half / and I get half?
You think that's fair?
No! No! No!
Give him to her ... I don't care!

She can feed him from her breast
Mother's milk ... by far the best
She can coddle him at night
Lullaby him til' the morning light

Just don't cut him up, my lord
He came from my lifeblood's umbilical cord
She can have him ... "whole" and complete
I'll suffer the loss ... It's my defeat

Oh?
Word?
You're givin' him back to me?
My sacrifice has made you see?
He "IS" my baby ... and you are WISE
Good judgement call... thru Wisdom's eyes ..."

this is damn good, really... *nods*

---------------------------------
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from you ©my fortune cookie

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http://www.lulu.com/content/132318
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u r simply GENIOUS

the beauty found in a five year old's smile is a wondrous thing. his hands waved in front of my face and all I could do was wink at him and brush his hair away from his eyes. I've seen his father peek-a-boo before us; his mouth twitch, his eyebrow arch, his stutter-step. he is the most Godly thing I've ever seen. I've stood before myself wondering just how blessed I am to see his face every morning, to kiss his chubby cheeks at night. A mother, wow! he looks up at me with innocence filling his eyes and it takes everything in me not to shun him from every negative occurrence in this world. I've named him appropriately; Xavier Isaiah. he is a sculpture; lips covered in milk, fingers layered in applesauce, a living masterpiece. a work of fine art. he is beautiful.

©Tremaine L. Loadholt 16October09

---------------------------------
somebody you love needs a letter
from you ©my fortune cookie

blog|books|browse|buy
http://absolutelyflawed.wordpress.com
http://www.lulu.com/content/132318
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>the beauty found in a five year old's smile is a wondrous thing


*Felt This*

I'm in the bank.

Why I'm here isn't really important. The point is I'm sitting at the desk of a clerk who's left to do something.




Across from me, sit two women, clerk and client, chatting with the kind of conversation you find normally in a bank.



"And the account bears a 1% interest. But if you would like, I can upgrade you to a premium account which bears 3 %."

"No, I don't think I'll need that."

"Well, with the amount-"

"No, thank you. I don't think I'll need that."

"Ah, OK."




The conversation goes on, metal against metal, tone against tone, a tiny, polite hatred like new skin-


just below the surface.



After two minutes, the clerk rises in a huff and stalks off toward the rear of the bank.



In the remaining quiet, the lady turns to me.



With a voice like royal stone, she says:


"The problem with being pretty is that everybody knows it. You can't just shake it off.
You can't fold it away like that dress you bought a size too small, hoping.
Even on the days that it's more of a heavy scepter than a crown,
you bear it just as much as they bear ugliness. "

Walking home E- calls out from the duka and motions me to wait.
He lives in the second building of the family home, and has lived here
for three years.

"Let us take this car home."

We speed down the main road in the back of a white pickup truck.
We stand holding onto a metal frame while the third unnamed person
sits near the back window. We climb out the truck at the blue and white sign,
across the street from the makeshift cell phone stand, which exists in all its frailty
in front of the town graveyard. We walk home.

"So…you have been here for some time, yes? Do you like it here?
Do you find the conditions…well, are the conditions o.k. for you?
What I mean is…as you can see, life is very, very hard here."

"This is where we are supposed to meet."

The driver opens his door and leaves the minibus.
Putting my bags on the floor behind my seat I exit the passenger side.
At the gas station I'll change cars and ride an hour to the city with a new driver.

You know this place. You came here on the way to the village.
You saw the children selling oranges, candy, soap, apples, jewelry, bananas,
designer jeans, soft drinks, small television sets, tennis rackets, assorted nuts,
and dress shoes in the middle of the street. You remember the trash burning,
the roadside in flames, the car accidents, the smog, the blackouts.

Your mind drifts away.

Why does this hotel exist when a single night is equivalent to a person's annual income?
Since we are here to educate, why should we overlook gender equality?
Although colonial rule ended in 1964, are we not here in the same capacity?
When she asks about what you are thinking, you have no answer:
"Mpenzi?"
"Hapana."

We're waiting for the second bus to arrive. A shopkeeper suggests a walking stick,
then a ring, then a hand-carved wooden statue. He retires and instead starts talking.
His entire family is from the country. He has lived here all his life.
He knows the geographic position of my home. He asks me what time it is there.
He confirms it with his watch that shows time for any location with a press of a
button.

"Have you stayed here long? Have you seen the life? Life is so hard."

U writing a book? -- :9

The above two threads sound like two different chapters in the same book.


But uhhhhh ... you missed a coupla chapters in between ... (Went from Thursday to Sunday) -- :(

*I was Interested*

She was in a dry spell until this literary dick nigga came skeeting all over her mental and now...she feels that way you feel when you've been tweaked and twirked but it's not in yet. you know its coming and you want it bad and your hips keep moving and all you wanna do is get some more and give it back. i guess i'm just trying to say, she was in a dry spell and now she's inspired.

so so good to see blaksilence back on the boards.

peace

>literary dick nigga came skeeting all over her mental
:P


If his skeetin' will bring you outta hibernation, Missy ... I say: SKEET ON blaksilence!!! -- *heheh*



... just stay ova there with that skeetin', blak -- :+

pause.



best part...

preciate it.

feeling's mutual.

aLL I could say is how did I get myself into this
been down befo' but ain't neva been this down, how
did life impose itself on me . .
I was restless, shhh just plain nervous, didn't know
what to expect, until I saw a familiar face from the past
walk over to me . .

she knew her marriage was gonna last forever like tameka
and her husband's did . . I guess sometimes love just isn't
enough ya know . . it was around 11 o'clock that night when
brian got home, drenched from the rain . . he was agitated
he appeared aloof, even disorganized, then he told her . .
our marriage is over . .

www.gnn.tv

*Painfully Nice*

Black face. Blue lips. Naked. She lies frozen on the metal slab. I watch her. I watch her face and know that she wasn't pretty before she died. Average maybe, below even, but not pretty. The coroner has sewed her lips into an upward curve. They were off when we found her, her lips that is. He placed them back on after the examination, but with an upward twist. I don't know why he's done this. I watch her face. She smiles in her death now. this makes me sad. Because she smiles though she may not have wanted to. Perhaps in this moment, she'd rather frown. The forehead is too wide. That's what bothers me the most. Her forehead is too wide and long, her eyes too bulky and bulging, her nose too thin and pinched, her mouth too fat, hanging, I watch her and know that even without the lip removal, the facial disfigurement, she wasn't pretty. I brand her with this judgment even though she can't defend herself. She smiles at my judgment, even though she'd probably prefer to frown at it.

"Some looker, this one, eh?"

This is my partner Simms.

I don't know his first name. He doesn't know mine. We don't prefer it this way. It's just standard procedure.

"I guess so."

"You're always guessing." He twists his eyes over to me in the manner that I've come to call his custom. It's a mixture of sarcasm, disdain, and merriment. He has a way of looking at you as if you're perpetually the butt of a secret joke.

"I guess so."

He sigh chuckles (if I had a better description, I'd use it) and turns to the coroner whose over at his desk, filling out a sheet of paper.

"Doc, what was the cause of death again?"

"Strangulation."

"Strangulation by what?"

"Hand."

The coroner speaks without looking up, without stopping his pen from slicing through the papers on his desk.The asian features set on his small frame make him seem callous, stern. His unmoved sense of calm makes me feel that he would sound the same if he had been asked a completely different question.


(If he were behind the counter of a deli.)

"Doc, what kind of cut is this kosher pastrami?"

"Strangulation."

"Blessed by a rabbi?"

"Hand."



etc., etc.

Two demons pour a pint for Poe at a circular table at the far end of the bar. On the stage, Virginia Woolf sings a Duran Duran song. "Hungry Like the Wolf", no less. It's karaoke night.
"Get that damned band out of here! I wanna hear some jazz right now!", yells Hemingway. He's been here a couple of days and bought a nice new shotgun right before. Orwell wonders out loud why he hasn't been sent home by now, to which Hemingway replies with a chunky middle finger.
Piñero, you would think, should have been distracted by all the commotion behind him while telling his stories of the days when he was down and out...wait a minute. He was never up and in. Anyway Virginia is done and Emerson jeers at her and that's all he says and has said all night.
I don't think I need another drink...bottoms up. I feel a slap on my back and nearly choke on my drink. Picasso is an ass like that. His friend is mighty young...hmm. They walk off to a corner table.
I really don't need another drink and gulp it down quickly before another thought is lent to it. That's the one that did it. The room went dark and I saw Basho levitating out of his seat.
Oscar Wilde walked by and felt under and over him and felt no strings. He was drinking what I was drinking. Poe's head is glued to the table as the demons high-five and steal his opium. I need to go to bed.......

You stuck some hella~interesting heads in this joint ...

Poe ... Piñero ... Picasso ... Hemingway ... Emerson ...



*Great Story*

Drink the moon, my nigga. That's what he said to me. I didn't understand. I looked at him like he spoke to me in Creole. The sounds made sense but the meaning escaped me.

"What?" I asked.

"Drink in the moon, my nigga."

He repeated it with effect. So much so that his hands swished through the air at the end of each word.

Drink. In. The. Moon. My. Nigga.

Silence.

"What?"

"Drink in the moon, nigga."

"I mean, I hear what you're saying but I don't really understand what you're saying. Drink in the moon?"

He inhaled a deep pull from a thing too tight to be a cigarette and looked at me as if I was the dumbest person alive. With one eyebrow raised and his lips in a sneer, he blew smoke out the side of his mouth.

"You gotta do the knowledge, my nigga. I can't give you what I can't give you."


Perhaps it was the smoke, perhaps it was the look on his face, perhaps it was my confusion but for some strange reason, I took his words into serious consideration. They became dire to me. He can't give what he can't give? What does this mean? And although now really confused, utterly puzzled, I leaned forward, took the too tight thing that he passed, held it and smoked it.

I thought and thought...and thought and thought.

Drink in the moon?

After a space of five minutes, I made up my mind. I decided that the only logical explanation of 'Drink in the moon' was that this man beside me obviously knew how to imbibe the moon as if it's liquid.

He said do the knowledge. I did the knowledge. Drink in the moon. Alright, he can drink in the moon. So the next thing I had to do was ACTUALLY drink in the moon like he could. No problem. I set my jaw, concentrated my mind. If he could do it, I could do it. Fuck him. From my seated position in the warm passenger side of his BMW, I looked up through the windshield, past the club lights and found the moon floating full.

As I stared, concentrating, the son of bitch moon had the nerve to mock me. Fat and bloated and yellow, it sung, "Na na na nah, hoe, you can't drink me!"

I got angry. Reaching into the fast food bag between my knees, I pulled out one of the extra straws, broke the seal, pulled the paper away and stared at it.

"Ay Dulo," I asked, turning to him straight faced, dead serious, "But how do I get this muhfukka to stretch though?"

-Awkward Silence-

-And awkward silence-

-And more awkward silence-

Then he fell out laughing.

and fell out laughing


"What?" I asked, still very serious, still pointing a red striped, plastic cylinder at the moon, "Stop laughing. You said do the knowledge! I'm doing the knowledge! Tell me how to get it to stretch, my nigga! The fuck I'm supposed to drink it in without a straw?!"

When he finally gained his breath, some ten minutes later, he said,

"Na man, I just meant look at the moon, my nigga. Drink it in. It's full as shit."

"Oh,"

I said quietly.

And time went by in large ticks.

*Ironically Funny*


I likes ...

If so ... why you stop at #6 ... When 7 is MY lucky number? -- :P


When folks are through with posting in this thread .... I recommend an ARCHIVE.

... but I'mmma need someone to SECOND the motion ... (or maybe even third) ... *I forget* -- shruggs


Thanks for this, blak ... *Much Appreciated*

I scraped the sun from the bottom of my shoe. It melted quickly and turned gooey.

The inky night dripped a blurple fluid ... covering clouds stealthlike ... tinting them / phantom shadows. The air was dense and heavy
... yet I breathed a sigh of relief. I knew I could steal his soul without anyone seeing me ... without him even "feeling" the emptyness.

My eyelids were heavy with insight, so I closed them for a quick cat nap. I had time to spare ...



Sleep comes in 4 flavors ... I'll try the chocolate one FIRST! -- :P




*to be continued*